


Matt And Claire's

by sasha_b



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, My First Work in This Fandom, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt calls Claire one more time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matt And Claire's

**Author's Note:**

> I found this prompt on the Dreamwidth Kink Meme, but it doesn't quite fit what the OP wanted I don't think, so I'm not sure if I should link it or not. 
> 
> eta: I guess I will.
> 
> Original prompt: _The feel of thread pulling through his skin and the smell of iodine and the sound of Claire's voice._
> 
> I had wanted to go more porny but this is what came.
> 
> SPOILERS for the whole series.

He really hadn’t wanted to call her.

But in the end, when the blood pooled under him so quickly he almost took off his own ear when he slipped in it _fucking open cabinet_ he decided hell with his pride and picked up the phone with shaking hands.

*

“Sorry,” Matt says for the forty-seventh time. 

“It’s okay,” she answers for the forty-eighth.

*  
The sun went down a few hours ago (he had felt the warmth leeching from the brick walls of his loft) and she is working on him still, her hands delicate but strong, the smell of iodine and alcohol and 

“Are you using Dermoplast on my face?”

“It works. Why are you complaining?”

“Isn’t that for … you know, like after … ” he shoots a sigh out of his nose and winces. “Foggy’s aunt had it all over her house after she had her son.”

Claire’s breathing slows to almost nonexistent and the soft pad that has been putting the stinky stuff on his temple disappears. He wants to say _wait don’t stop_ but she sucks in a huge lungful of air and laughs, her voice as pleasant as it has been every other time.

The smell of disinfectant, the _surruss_ of the tape as she tears it, the feel of the sharp pinch of the 

“OW.”

“Haven’t you been using the suit?”

“Yeah, but I – jeez, Claire – I’m not perfect.”

“Far from it,” she says, poking at his side, her fingers callused but when she slips them over his (he’s pretty sure) cracked ribs, he realizes they aren’t – she smells like hospital and cleaning things and she touches him in a way that he can see even without listening to her heart and everything else that belongs to her.

_Matty, be tough with me. I’m not a baby. Just stitch it._

He licks his lips and lies still, letting Claire bandage him, breathing in the scent of acrid chemicals and small tang of her perfume and he suddenly realizes she’s wearing a new shirt, or at least one that’s not familiar to him, and her jeans are tight and hardly worn.

She pats him with the Dermoplast on his chest after finishing his face, and when she murmurs _this might hurt_ he finds he’s not clenching his belly like he normally does when she stitches him.

It’s dark outside and the wind is carrying its messages to him like it always does (the city always speaks) along with the ice of the coming winter and the smoke from people’s fires and radiators (the old ones are the worst) and the needle pierces his right ab and he jerks unconsciously, turning toward her, his nostrils flaring at the sharp, iridescent smells and the _clean_ (he can smell the sweat and the dirt from the suit, where it’s stacked on his table, overwhelming and danger and exhaustion) and  
He snatches at her hand the moment she’s finished and he pulls himself up, hissing in pain but ignoring the bruises and contusions she’s come to fix and he kisses her, kisses her lips for only the second time.

Her heart speeds, a drum, a staccato beat, a living thing that wraps itself around him and begins to match his own racing pulse and she starts and makes a sound but her hands are on him, on his sore face, the nasty Dermoplast getting on her fingers and getting in his hair when she slips them into it.

_a world on fire_

becomes

_water, steam, fall leaves in the air_

_rhythmic, solid, strong, a path, sure of its way_

_gentle, cool, directionless, calm_

Flowers bloom and die in the time it takes for him to pull away from her, the familiar smell of the cleaning agents and the tape and scissors and patching pads and the metal that makes up the needles she carries and the gut string that holds him together all the time now flooding him, carrying him, lightening his heart and his load and his _I can’t take a single step_ and his _I’m alone_ fades with the slowing rush of her heart and her breath, coffee and mints and 

“You didn’t bring me any falafel?”

Her hands let his face go, rising to run trembling through her hair. He smiles; her gestures are well known to him, as well known as the fucking iodine and sutures.

“The only good place is still closed. It’s taken some places a while to clean up after – ”

“The Battle. I know. Pity.”

“Matt.”

“Are we done with this?” He gestures to the bag he knows she has at her feet. She leans over, cleaning up her detritus, the things that he’s come to think of as _Matt and Claire’s_ and he lets her finish stuffing the remainder of the supplies into the bag.

The traffic light outside his window (exactly fifteen feet north-northwest) swings and the newspaper vendor on the corner finally closes his shutters. “Yeah, we’re done,” she answers, her voice tremoring. His throat closes over the words he was going to say, speaking silenced by his own shakes. He can feel them, a clog in the works, one of his wonderfully enhanced senses down for the count, just like his dad, a broken bone, popped stiches, spilled alcohol. The dirty, greasy, messy suit. Sweat, grime, oil, muck. Dirt and alcohol, danger and safety. Matt. Claire.

He stands, his sweatpants hanging low on his aching hips. This time it had been bad. This time the suit wasn’t quite what he needed it to be. He’ll have to speak with Melvin about adding something. The street mud is ground into its every pore.

But not hers.

“You shouldn’t be up.”

He knows she’s hesitating, knows she’s tired but has worn new clothing for him and showered and put on perfume (unlike her), so something is obviously going on, other than the kiss. Other than her normal _we’re not going anywhere with this_ speech. “I’m fine,” he says, following the smell of _hospital_ and _Claire_ and the sound of her voice that he loves so much.

“Why did you do that?”

He stops at her back as she reaches his door, but she doesn’t turn. The silence that she can barely hear is almost overwhelming to him, so he turns the focus to the smell and the feel of her blood flow and minutia of her movements and he takes a stumbling step and wraps arms around her waist. He’s exhausted and hurts and she’s there still, longer than she normally is, and he closes his eyes even though that doesn’t matter.

A thought, a stray one at the smell of _Matt and Claire’s_ stuff. He says it before he can shut it down.

“Stay.”

Her eyes pop open with a force that shakes her in his grasp.

“What?”

“You smell – I hear you – Claire.” His words don’t make sense, not to him, maybe to her as she turns in his arms. The light he hardly ever uses near the hallway entry is on, the heat from the bulb almost searing his hands as he continues to hold her.

What is he doing?

The bag with the _Matt and Claire’s_ medicine in it drops to the ground and she tightens her grip on his arms, then touches the sticky spot on his temple that still reeks of anti-bacterial agent. “You’re okay.”

It’s not a question, but he hears the incredulity and hesitation there – her breathing is quick and shallow and her pulse is in her fingertips.

“Stay.”

“You’re not – I thought you said you were okay.”

“That’s not why I’m asking.”

He needs her. For the scent of clean, for the touch of gentleness and care, and for the fact her hands are strong when his don’t want to be. And so many other reasons he can’t name them. With Fisk in jail and the Russians gone, Claire is safe (he hopes, he prays) and he _hates_ the selfishness that makes him want her there. He wants her there, for the scent, for the touch, and for the strength. Just for right now. No more dirt. Just for right now.

Tomorrow, he’ll be feeling himself again, but for now, he lowers his nose and mouth to the hands he raises and clutches hers with, breathing in the alcohol and metal and cotton pads and he kisses the pulse at the base of her wrist and he can feel her lock her knees.

“I’ll regret this.”

“Probably.”

In a moment of – wrongly placed romanticism? Heraldry – idiocy? he leans and tries to pick her up

“OW, God da- dang it.”

Her laugh is the best thing ever. Her laugh and the new clothing that rustles against his bare chest, and the clean, strong hands that cup his cheeks. When it dies off, they walk together to his bedroom, her arm supporting him even though he knows the way.

The bag with her medical supplies in it stays in the hall, but he can smell it even through her skin, even through the walls, even through the thoughts that make the guilt he feels at keeping her (even for the night) roar up and turn his already busted up gut more raw.

They lay facing each other, and when she kisses him (the third time) he smiles and shoves the dirty shit aside and _focuses_ and he’s 

_a world on fire_

silence.

No more dirt.

**Author's Note:**

> So much love for this series. I need more Matt/Claire. I need more Matt being hurt and angsting.
> 
> Feedback is love.


End file.
